


Vermilion Hunger, Cerulean Thirst

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Rimming, Romance, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-24
Updated: 2007-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Dean discovers that he can't resist the colour red, though being attracted to Ron isn't exactly the smoothest of roads.





	Vermilion Hunger, Cerulean Thirst

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: My gratitude to Risiepookie or this marvelous pairing and prompt, to Wolfiekins for listening to me read sections of it aloud to him, and to Koshweasley for the suggestion of a perfect ending. To my betas, Wolfiekins, Kerryblaze and Kaalee, my bottomless, heartfelt gratitude.   


* * *

  
_And I recall I surrendered_  
I saw you dancing barefoot  
In the garbage and the leaves… 

_Salome, Salome maybe…_  
Salome maybe between you and me  
We'd have made some history… 

Dean crooned along with the lead singer of Cousteau, his own untrained low baritone a good meld for most of their songs. He was in an upbeat groove, but in a decidedly mellow fashion. Daubing cautiously at his canvas, he cocked his head, evaluating the bit of shadow he was trying to evoke from the clouds that passed over the two figures in the portrait. Wandlessly he turned up the volume, allowing the sultry music to pulse more loudly around him as he rocked back and forward on his feet, swaying his hips in time in a small figure eight. Thankfully his picture wasn't quite finished and he'd not cast the _Animus_ spell on it yet, as he had no doubt that once Seamus was enlivened, he'd have all kinds of foul-mouthed, joking commentary about Dean and the habits he engaged in while working. It wasn't all that long to Christmas, at any rate, and the gift wedding portrait would be out of his studio and hung somewhere in his sister Imogen's and Seamus' home.

"You're bloody beautiful, mate," he said to portrait-Seamus, "and I'm really glad you're happy."

He was grateful that he was finally able to say that without too much melancholy. He'd held onto the idea that he and his best mate could be far more than that for many years; it'd flared and burned brightly during the War, of all times, when Seamus had decided he might fancy blokes as well as birds. Dean had been scorched in the end, however. After Seamus' mum had been killed and he'd spent more and more time with the Thomases, he'd fallen hopelessly for Dean's younger sister. A part of Dean died slowly during their courtship, his never-spoken passionate yearnings kept ruthlessly smothered until he couldn't bear it. He'd travelled to Fortaleza, Brazil of all places, a good month's time away to walk the beaches and revive his abused libido; to drink and rage and mourn and heal. Things were nearly back to normal between them now. Dean suspected, however, that a part of him would be forever empty, his first and deepest affections given rashly and unreservedly, but not returned in kind.

A neon green clockface suddenly appeared and hovered near his easel. He'd set the _chronos_ to show up on the half-hour, and an alarm would go off in thirty minutes at six o'clock. One of the new art galleries in wizarding Glasgow had decided to have an all-Hogwarts-artists exhibit, and Dean had several paintings that would be on display. Tonight was the opening; it would be a formal affair. Not being one for convention, he'd picked out a white leather jacket and trousers ensemble. His ex, Patric, had said he looked like an "angelic shag magnet" in it, and while Dean didn't care about that one way or another, he knew it did accentuate his lean lines. That tended to happen when you were six foot five.

The honeyed lyrics of the next song drifted into Dean's awareness. He forced himself to focus on being productive until he got ready for the evening's event, looking at the painting with a critical eye. He'd always drawn portraits— well, sketches of people, to be accurate. In a locked trunk under a back shelf he had his collection of drawings from his years in school. Most were of Seamus, though he'd sketched a few other people from time to time. He'd hoped to be able to show Seamus the pictures, but he'd also wanted it to be within the context of a relationship, pulling them out at an anniversary or something equally sappy and nauseating. Obviously that wasn't meant to be.

He let himself be carried along by the smoky music, tweaking the dimple in Seamus' right cheek until he had it just right. Portrait-Seamus now radiated happiness, though his smile was impish. Even while motionless, as Dean regarded him via his handiwork, the Seamus on canvas seemed about to get up to something slightly wicked. Dean had just turned his attentions to the delicate cornrows of his sister's hair when the alarm went off. He put away his paints, cleaned off his brushes by hand — he was superstitious that way — and cast a protection spell on the picture before turning off the music and lights and exiting his studio.

Forty-five minutes later he stood on the threshold of the gallery, wavering for a moment as he saw the milling crowd already gathered inside. He was nervous for no shortage of reasons: Patric was bound to show up, and while they got along, things had the potential to be awkward; Seamus would be there; his works had never been shown publicly like this, especially not the one landscape he'd submitted; and he'd quit drinking, so he didn't have that to calm his jangling nerves. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, unfastening his overrobe and handing it to the quite fetching, but rather young attendant.

"Good evening," the attendant said. The look in the young man's awestruck, lustful gaze was enough to boost Dean's confidence back up to a normal level.

"Yes, it is." He straightened his jacket and smiled to himself as he caught the attendant sneak a glance at his groin. The trousers left precious little to the imagination, but Dean had always been comfortable in his skin. A little ogling was fine. He knew he didn't exactly blend in, not wearing cream-coloured leathers, and then there was his height, matched by only a very few.

One of those men was waving at him, his own distinctive appearance making him impossible not to notice. Dean strode over to Ron, his former classmate's grin so infectious that he felt his own face nearly aching with the wideness of his smile.

"Hey, Dean! This is brilliant! Looks as though life's been treating you well!" Ron enthused, shaking Dean's hand and gesturing vaguely at the room.

"Thanks, Ron. I can say the same about you," Dean said truthfully. Ron was dressed far more traditionally in dark slacks and a slate coloured jumper, and the shade of his pullover really brought out his blue eyes. He was as fit as ever, too. "Didn't I see you in last month's Triple Q? Fucking excellent, you being Keeper for the new Green Knights team!"

Ron beamed, a rosy flush creeping up slightly from the base of his throat under his freckles. "Yeah. Thanks." He downed his glass of wine, which was seemingly instantly replaced by another, courtesy of the astute servers mingling through the assembly. "Wish Harry could've seen it, though," he said, his voice more solemn.

Dean nodded. Harry's death, while frankly not unexpected, had still been shocking in its utter finality. Those who'd been at Hogwarts with him had taken it especially hard, Ron and Hermione the most. They'd been inconsolable and grievous in ways that had made Dean's heart ache when he'd attended the various post-War memorial ceremonies. It'd been during a night of drunken reminiscing and unfettered openness that Dean had discovered just how close Ron and Harry had been, much to Dean's surprise and understanding. After discovering Ron was a fellow shirt-lifter, he'd gone on and on about his unrequited feelings for Seamus. As he'd picked through the fuzzy shards of conversation he could remember the next morning, Dean gratefully realized that Ron had been even more shit-faced and conveniently didn't have much beyond a vague recollection of what they'd discussed.

"Yeah," Dean now said somberly. He was brought out of his reverie when a server offered him some wine. "D'you have ginger beer?" he asked. A champagne flute filled with the golden fizzy beverage appeared and Dean appreciatively took it. Ron gave him an odd look.

"My stomach's a bit funny," he admitted, toasting Ron as he polished off his wine. "I'm not used to people standing around, staring at my stuff, y'know?"

"Not really, but I do get a bit queasy before the matches," Ron sympathised, soliciting a new glass. "Will you show me your prints? I reckon I'd recognise them unless you've gone all modern since those drawings you did in school. Hey, do you know any of the other artists?"

Dean smiled ruefully. "A few. And sure, I'll walk you over to my little corner." He turned, gently nudging Ron toward the stairs to the second floor where his few paintings hung. He'd supervised their installation a few days prior, and was quite pleased with their relative prominence in the exhibit. All at once the hairs bristled on the back of his neck and he paused.

"Ron," he asked quietly, "is there a tow-haired, rail thin chap at the door, probably wearing black trousers, black shirt and an aloof expression?"

Ron gazed quizzically toward the door. "Yeah. Thought you were talking about somebody else there for a minute," he said with a slight shudder. "Who is he?"

Dean tossed back his ginger beer and hurriedly accepted another. "Patric. My ex. We split a while ago, though, and he's really not a bad bloke."

Ron's lips downturned and he shook his head. "Reminds me too much of Malfoy."

"I didn't know him much at all, but I'm pretty sure Patric's nothing like him, except in looks, now that you mention it. Why don't you go on upstairs, I'll have a brief chat, and meet you there in a few," Dean suggested. He decided it would be better to go ahead and get his obligatory congratulations over with.

"All right. But don't be too long…" Ron's voice trailed off and his eyes grew wide. "Pixie's piss! I didn't know she'd be here," he said, glancing furtively at a group entering the main hall from a corridor across the room.

"Who?" Most of the other participants were far more renowned than he was, and a couple he was pretty sure had been invited solely for their notoriety outside of their artistic pursuits.

"Susan Overkill. Classmate of Bill's, I think. Married to Sebastian, coach for the Ballycastle Bats," he said excitedly.

"She's rather avant garde," Dean said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Go on. I'll go make nice and then lurk about my canvases."

"Right. Hey— it's really good to see you. Really," Ron repeated, his earnestness nearly palpable.

"Thanks mate. Really," Dean said, winking. A question flitted across his mind. "I'm glad you're here, but out of curiosity, why? I didn't think you'd be the art exhibit type of bloke, even with a Hogwarts focus."

"Oh. All of the team was invited. PR kind of thing. I seem to be the only one who's showed so far," he replied with a shrug, finishing off another glass and accepting another. "See you in a bit."

"Cheers."

Dean let out a quick huff of breath as Ron moved away, readying himself to go and chat with Patric.

An hour later, Dean was battling good-naturedly with Seamus about their respective holiday plans. He was in buoyant spirits; their banter was easygoing and familiar, comfortable and grounding as putting on his perfectly worn boots. Not only that, but he'd received two commissions, neither from friends or family. When Ron reappeared, Dean was frankly shocked, having assumed that he'd have ducked out.

"Seamus! Great to see you!" Ron said expansively.

"Ron! Didn't expect to see the likes of you here," Seamus said, waggling his eyebrows. "Sure ye're not lost?"

"No! I mean, yes," Ron chortled. "I live here, I mean, not in here, but here in Glasgow— you know what I mean." He shook his head, draping an arm across Dean's shoulders. "Our Dean here's bloody talented. I've seen all of the other paintings, mobiles, even a bloody rubbish bin turned on its side with stuffed skrewts around it. How is that art?" he asked Dean, his expression one of utter confoundment.

"Dunno. It's not my kind of art," Dean said wryly. A warm pang lodged in his breastbone at being touched, even if it was only in a friendly manner. He was a tactile person, physically gratuitous when dating or even just getting a pull. Dean sensed himself easing against Ron's body and decided he should arrange for a massage first thing in the morning.

"I've got to go," Seamus apologised. "But I'd better be seeing your famous arse at your mum's by six Christmas Eve. See you, Ron. Oh, and brilliant game against the Harpies!" He slapped Ron on the back and took of sprightly down the stairs.

Ron cocked his head and gazed levelly at Dean. "Is he okay?"

"Sure. Just lovesick." Dean ignored the faint rattling of bitterness that threatened him, focussing instead on Ron. He appeared to be in good spirits, but not sloppy drunk. His eyes seemed very clear and startlingly blue, but perhaps that was simply because it truly had been a while since they'd seen each other. That or the eyes that Dean knew best were mossy green, with golden flecks that danced around his irises.

Ron made an uncommitted, derogatory sound. "Say, d'you wanna go to the Belligerent Badger? Being around all of these paintings has given me an idea. C'mon," he pleaded, giving Dean a hopeful look.

Dean chuckled. He couldn't begin to guess what harebrained ideas were floating around Ron's brain. Ron had caught him in a weak moment; he was tired of hobnobbing but he wasn't ready to go back to his cozy but very companion-less flat. Not that he thought Ron was out for anything from him like that— they were just friends, and companionship was what Dean wanted now, anyway.

"Sure. Is it far?"

"No, just a few blocks. Let's go."

They made their way downstairs, earning a few surreptitious stares that Dean chalked up to their pair of towering heights. The door attendant looked heartbroken as he returned their robes, but Ron seemed oblivious. They chatted about the few other Hogwarts people they knew who'd been at the opening, but all the while, Dean was reliving the few conversations he'd had with Ron the past couple of years. He concluded that he didn't think Ron had been involved with anyone, probably due to the pain of losing his lover and best mate. It made sense to Dean; he'd had only the one relationship, and shagged a few others, but on some level the experiences were shadowed with an illogical sense of betrayal.

Once at the pub, Ron ordered a shot of Bitter Banshee and a pint of dark ale. Dean asked for a glass of tonic water with lime. He followed Ron to a cramped and secluded corner booth where they sat down across from one another. Ron leaned back with a contented sigh.

"Can't really stretch your legs, but it's better than most of the tables." He tossed back his vivid green liquor before switching to his pint. Wiping the bit of foam off his top lip, he looked warily at Dean. "I don't get it," he said, gesturing at Dean's glass. "Don't you feel well now?"

Dean chewed a bit on the inside of his cheek. He'd anticipated this conversation, but he couldn't gauge how Ron would react. "I don't drink anymore," he shrugged, chasing the lime wedge around his fizzy water with a straw. "I kept doing stupid things."

"We all do stupid things, me most of all, Merlin!" Ron groaned, taking another deep swallow.

"The last time I got hammered, I was with Seamus and I got on my broom. Flew into a tree. Nearly lost an eye," Dean said heavily, leaning forward and tapping at the half-moon scar still visible at the corner of his right eye and curving down to his cheekbone. "Bit of a challenge to paint anything with depth perception with only one eye."

Ron seemed to take Dean more seriously, tapping two wide fingers against the base of his glass.

"Another time, not long before that, Seamus and I were on the roof of his flat — don't ask me why, probably looking at the stars or something that seemed profound at the time. Anyway, I fell off the roof. Broke my arm. It healed up, but I'd just hate to think of what might happen the next time."

"Sounds like you need to not drink with Seamus! He's bad for you!" Ron joked. "Now with me, you don't have to worry about bad karma like that."

Dean snorted before drinking some of his tonic. "Maybe. Look, I don't want to make a big deal out of it, all right? You go ahead and have what you want, and so will I. Deal?"

Ron ran a hand through his shambles of auburn hair, the wind having whipped through it during their walk. "Yeah, I reckon. Don't want you to feel weird around me. Maybe this was a bad idea," he mumbled into the rim of his glass as he drank another healthy swallow.

"Ron, it's fine," Dean insisted, quite ready to change the subject. "What's this idea you were going on about at the gallery?"

"Oh! Right!" Ron's face lit up as though he'd just been told he'd been named Quidditch Player of the Year and asked to pose for Un-Robed! all on the same day. "I want you to do a portrait of me! In my Green Knights gear. Since I left Hogwarts before year seven, mum didn't have one done like she did for everyone else. And I don't mean for you to do it for free or discounted or anything. I'll pay you whatever your going rate is."

Dean blinked in surprise. "You do?" he asked, flabbergasted. "And hold on— Fred and George left Hogwarts too, but their portrait is large as life in those hideous green jackets. Hard to miss, even in the Burrow."

Ron rolled his eyes and finished his pint, placing the glass on the table with a thud. "I know. Mum had it done that summer afterwards, when Wheezes was doing so well. So what do you say? Will you paint me? I'm pretty sure I can stand still. Oh, yeah— thanks, mate. One of each." The last comments were tossed off to a server who'd come around and noticed Ron's pair of empty glasses.

"Actually, I tend to work from photographs," Dean admitted.

"You mean I wouldn't get to pose in person?" Ron asked, his obvious disappointment deflating his enthusiasm.

"No. I mean, of course you _could_ if you wanted to," Dean said hurriedly. "I've not done many of these for money, and most people don't have the time or want to hang around in my studio for days on end and be stared at."

"Oh. Well, I just thought that was part of the deal. I have the time, if we could work around my practise schedule. Ta." Another Bitter Banshee and pint sloshed across the table.

"I can do it, sure." A flutter of pride and gratitude went through Dean. Thankfully he wasn't envious of Ron and his success, so different than his own. He'd probably not charge him what he would if he were painting somebody else, though. "How large of a portrait were you thinking?"

"Um, dunno. Nothing that'll make me seem like I'm full of it. I just thought it'd be pretty brilliant to have a work of yours, and this Green Knights thing is pretty major for me." He tugged at his unbuttoned dress shirt, evidently embarrassed.

"No, I think it's a great idea. I'm flattered, Ron, really." Dean's mind was already racing, pondering what kind of poses he might suggest to Ron, and how much if any of his Quidditch equipment Ron might want to incorporate into the picture. "When do you want to come over?"

Ron took a long pull on his pint, lost in thought. "Well, Christmas is in only a few days. After that? I'm sure you have heaps going on."

"No, not so much," Dean admitted. "Seamus is honourary son. I like being around my family, don't get me wrong, but I'm pretty content at my flat or in my studio. You could swing by tomorrow, if that suits. Say two o'clock?"

Ron nodded enthusiastically. "Excellent. Guess you'll need to give me the address, though," he said, smiling. "You're in London, right?"

"Close enough. I'm right on the Pegasus line, Wizard transport. I'll write it down for you," he said meaningfully, glancing at Ron's second round that he was quickly making headway through.

"Smart man," Ron said amiably.

They stayed another half-hour or so until the adrenaline that had been keeping Dean going through the evening ebbed away. He begged off staying around, and told Ron he'd look forward to seeing him the next day.

"Till then!" he said, waving as Dean walked away from the cosy corner table.

Dean's ears were ringing a bit from the loud crowd at the Badger, and his head spun from the fog of cigarette smoke and the exhibition that had started off the evening. He paused for a moment in the alleyway before Apparating home, shaking his head as a determined grin settled on his lips.

"I can't believe I'm going to be painting Ron. Good lord. What have I gotten myself into?" he said to himself, thinking of his flat and disappearing with a _crack!_. Once at home, he changed into boxers and a long sleeved t-shirt. He didn't drink anymore, it was true, but he did have other ways to relax. Making sure his flat was locked, he went to his fridge and took out a litre bottle of water before heading back to his bedroom. There he cracked open his back window and went rummaging through his sock drawer until he found his supply of enhanced cannabis. Dean indulged not infrequently, the pot provided thanks to George Weasley. It was Seamus, unsurprisingly, who'd introduced Dean to the pleasures of pot during their fifth year. Fred and George were evidently making a small fortune thanks to the lab set up in their dorm room, and not all from the products they'd been fabricating for their then-yet-unknown shop. When George had come to Dean after the War and asked him to do some illustrations and product art, he'd accepted willingly, refusing payment. George had found his own creative way to compensate him, regardless.

He sat back on his bed, lighting up a joint and pulling his side table and ashtray closer to him. Eventually the pot worked on him, leaving him mellow and his mind and hand wandering, as it often did when he smoked. It had been quite difficult when he'd gotten horny smoking around Seamus, but these days he didn't mind using his imagination while having a slow wank. Leaning over to the table, he retrieved his wand and turned on his modified Muggle CD player, changing the speaker settings to be in his bedroom. He chose Anson Astrolabe, an up-and-coming Wizard singer with a sexy voice and quite titillating song lyrics, skipping through the first two tracks before easing off his pants and settling back into his pillows.

_Up against the wall, carve me out of stone  
Pulse into me, I'm yours to atone…_

Closing his eyes, Dean stroked the skin around his tumescent cock, images coming to him inspired by Anson's erotic poetry. Astrolabe was quite the looker; tall and thin, with auburn hair that he wore in a shaggy mop around his face, perpetually dressed in red or maroon or similar shades. Dean had a thing for men with fair skin, though he'd not spent loads of time analysing why that was. He and Seamus had gone to a club a few times after the end of the War, a Muggle place called, appropriately, Nine Inch Males. There'd been a ginger-haired stunner there, too, somebody he'd not thought about in ages. As he languorously slid the skin up and down his erect shaft, a fantasy came to mind. Before indulging fully in it, he finished his joint and pulled out a tube of lubricant from the small drawer in his nightstand, coating the long fingers of his right hand as he spread his legs and cast a silent cleansing spell. He tilted his pelvis, teasing himself with his slick fingers under the soft, loose skin of his sacs and smoothing circles around his clenching hole.

_We're upended and tumbled,_  
Shattered with scornful looks and ecstasy  
Breathe on me, breathe possessively… 

"Oh yeah," Dean sighed as he eased three fingers in at once. In his mind's eye, he was back at that club, holding onto conveniently-placed handles as the well-hung dancer frotted behind him, whispering dirty, intoxicating things about how he was going to be so full, stretched as his huge cock pounded into him. A rumbling moan escaped him as Dean massaged his tight channel, his left hand speeding up as he smeared around the fluid from the head of his cock. The fantasy was so vivid: he was grasping the handles, the dancer having pulled down his trousers just far enough down Dean's thighs for him to spread his arse, purring obscenities about round and supple and made for fucking before he pushed in his heavy prick. They were alone, except as panting, fantasy-Dean rested his head against the jacquard-covered wall, arse jutting backwards to let the bloke have full access, he noticed Ron sitting at a table across the way. Back in his bed, Dean squeezed his muscles around his fingers, wondering why his friend had shown up in his very fulfilling wank. Didn't matter; he sank back into the dark, throbbing ambiance of the room as he was thrust into again and again. Fantasy-Ron sat with his denims pooled at his ankles, enjoying his own wank and looking heatedly at Dean and his nameless lover, evidently enjoying his role as voyeur.

"Fuck, Merlin, fuck," Dean chanted breathlessly as he pushed his fingers in and out of himself, eyes clenched shut to keep the fantasy as real as he could. He brushed against his prostate with a cry as he pistoned his aching prick with a vengeance, imagining the slap of bollcks against the tops of his thighs as the huge cock slid in and out, his gaze locked with Ron's. Prickling heat coiled in his sacs; blood pounded in his ears as his inner vision watched Ron's head loll back, his release spurting over his fist as in real life, Dean did the same. He gasped out in pleasure as the orgasm rocked through him, his muscles spasming around his deeply shoved fingers. The acrid, musky smell of his come wafted up to his nose while his whole body shuddered with the aftershocks of his climax. The thudding of his heartbeat eventually calmed and he eased out his fingers with a faint squelching sound. He'd been particularly vigorous in his self-ministrations, but not enough to warrant a healing salve. Thinking back to the lurid scene of his fantasy, he huffed a laugh at Ron's appearance.

"You're definitely not telling him about that tomorrow," he muttered to himself with a shake of his head, lazily sliding his legs over the edge of the bed and ambling into his bathroom. After washing up and brushing his teeth, he shut the window until it was open just a crack, and settled into bed with _Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly_ for a few minutes until he nodded off.

* * * * *

Dean had set his tea to steep and was doodling on a sketchpad to limber up his hands when Ron showed up. He didn't look any the worse for wear given his imbibing from the night before. Then again, Dean was only too aware of the hangover draughts and restorative potions available as he'd taken them on a regular basis in the recent past. After offering Ron a cup of tea, Dean gave him a quick tour of the flat and studio. He hovered a bit, letting Ron spend a little time looking through his unfinished pieces, the dozen or so canvases grouped by genre.

"I really like these," Ron said, pointing to a triptych that Dean had been working on sporadically for several months. He was trying to capture the exuberance of Fortaleza but also the turmoil and melancholy he'd felt during his time there. "They're really vivid. Where's it supposed to be?"

To a degree, Dean filled him in about his trip there and some of the more memorable experiences in the distant tourist city. Obliquely he referenced what had taken him there in the first place. He trusted Ron not to go spouting off to their communal friends, but it also wasn't as though they'd really discussed things like that— well, at least not when they'd both been in a state to remember anything.

Ron looked pensive for a moment, as though refamiliarising himself with Dean and reconciling the years together in nearby but not proximate orbits. "You really had it bad for him, didn't you?" he asked, idly scratching at his chest.

Inexplicably, Dean wondered if Ron had joined the recent and pervasive trend and had had his nipples pierced before his mind shied away from intimate musings to the question posed to him. For a moment he frowned, but then his expression cleared. Ron knew what it was like to lose someone, but his situation had been far more traumatic and devastating, not to mention permanent. Dean decided that if Ron was keen enough to want to spend days in a row in his studio, and had shown up in his fantasy, for Merlin's sake, he could be on the level with him. Ron was a decent, loyal bloke, someone Dean believed he could trust and who wouldn't take the piss with him too much.

"Yeah, I really did. But it doesn't hurt so much now, y'know? It's dulled a bit. He's happy. I only ever wanted that for him, but I'd hoped that would've included being with me." He twisted one of his short dreadlocks in between his third and ring fingers. "Naked, that is. A lot," he said with an apologetic grin, which was returned by a joyless smile on Ron's face.

"Yeah, I know. A body needs things, misses things," he said, shrugging, his blue eyes harbouring a disconsolate weariness that was almost shocking given Ron's usual demeanour. "I've not been celibate or anything since Harry," he said matter-of-factly. "'S not the same, though. They're just fucks. It's okay, I suppose. I'm not looking for a replacement. What about you?"

"Me?" Dean quit his habitual hair twiddling and cocked his head toward the door. "Care to take this into the living room?"

"Sure."

They walked back to the small living room where Dean refilled their tea and sidestepped Ron's question. "I'll do some preliminary drawings of you in just a bit," he promised as he pushed over the jumble of sketchbooks and correspondence so they could sit on his sofa. It was decadently comfortable, the maroon material supple but meant to be longwearing.

"No worries. No rush today. Feels good to talk, actually," Ron admitted, brushing his fringe out of his eyes and tucking it behind the top of a freckled ear. "You're a bloke. You know what it's like. I just can't stand getting cornered by Mum or Hermione or Gin. Trapped by bloody harpies who won't leave well enough alone," he said, exasperated and looking to Dean for sympathy.

Dean nodded as Ron went on, "I'm not some bloody girl. Harry was _everything_ , the first everything for me, but…" His voice trailed off as he cradled his tea in a surprisingly gentle manner given his large fingers. "He's gone. I'm not. I reckon he'd understand me going out to get a pull on occasion, y'know, even settle down again. I told him he should, if I didn't make it. Still, I can't imagine it, being with someone like that again. There's nobody else like him. And I'm not the easiest person to spend heaps of time with."

Dean appraised Ron and the resignation in his posture. Inside him there lingered an undercurrent of vitality, of course; Dean had seen it the night before, and heard it in his voice from the couple of interviews he'd been able to catch on the radio.

"I don't mind your company," he offered. "And I'm not just saying that because I'll be paid for the privilege."

A lopsided smile bloomed on Ron's lips. It made him appear vulnerably handsome in a way that caught Dean off-guard and he nearly choked on his tea.

"Thanks mate," Ron said warmly, accepting the closure to the topic and toasting him with his teacup. The gesture appeared to give him an idea. "You have anything to put in this?" he asked before wincing at his own question. "No, of course not. Sorry," he backpedaled.

"I don't, but you're welcome to get something if you'd like. There's a bottle shop down the road about a quarter mile; be my guest. When you get back you can tell me what kind of pose you've been considering, what background you'd like for your portrait, that sort of thing," Dean prattled, still discomfited at the attraction that had frissoned down his spine, leaving him hyper aware of Ron's physicality in a way he'd been oblivious to before.

"You sure you don't mind?" Ron clarified, though he'd already stood up from the couch and was making his way toward the coat rack placed next to the front door.

"No!" Dean laughed, shooing him on. "I'll amuse myself by drawing lewd pictures of you until you get back," he continued in his most officious voice, raising an eyebrow as he let his gaze travel slowly from Ron's head to this feet and back.

Ron gaped at him until he shook with laughter. "Yeah. Be certain you've an extra bottle of ink for all those freckles you'll have to put in!" he said, pulling on his tracksuit top before heading out the door.

Dean looked at himself in an asymmetrical mirror across the room. "What are you doing?" he queried, but his bemused reflection had no reply.

* * * * *

For the sake of the joke, Dean did end up making a hasty sketch of a statuesque Ron in a typical _Un-Robed!_ pose, holding a strategically placed pair of vambraces at the vee of his groin. Ron had thought it was so funny — and so flattering — he asked to keep it, but Dean demurred. "Can't let work like that of mine get out," he insisted, which was a partial truth. Ron's comments to the effect that Dean must be a good artist if he could envision someone's physique that well without seeing it in person had only added fuel to the peculiar smouldering intrigue Dean now felt. Of course he'd drawn what he'd imagined from his brilliant wank of the night before, though the key body part had been camouflaged in his sketch. If nothing else, Ron had had a good laugh out of it, and Dean felt it put Ron at ease even more than the half-bottle of brandy he'd put in his tea through the afternoon.

Ron invited Dean over to his place for Boxing Day and Dean quickly agreed. "I can start work on your portrait the day after that if you'd like," Dean suggested, gathering up the plates that had held the biscuits and sweets they'd grazed on for the prior couple of hours.

"Brilliant."

After placing the dishes on the counter, Dean returned to the living room to see Ron lounging against the wall, hands crossed over his chest and a loopy smile on his face. "I've not felt this relaxed, or felt so comfortable just sitting around shooting the breeze in ages," he said. "Why didn't you and I spend time together before?"

"We did, some, but Seamus was my best mate and you were off doing your secretive stuff—"

"No, not at school, I mean since then."

Dean chewed on his bottom lip. "Dunno— we don't exactly run in the same circles. Different interests, all of that. Fancying blokes doesn't automatically put us in the same groups."

"Shame, that," Ron said contemplatively before he zipped up his jacket. "Still, I'm glad I was at the gallery last night, and here today. Don't get me wrong; my team-mates are great, and I like that I don't have to talk about my part in things from the past. But you're good company. You ought to be sainted for doing my portrait— I'm bound to run my mouth non-stop."

"I'm sure I can handle it," Dean said with a wary smile. "You can't be worse than Seamus. Are you okay to Apparate? You could take a nap or something if you need to."

"Nah, I'm fine. I'm not exactly a lightweight," Ron joked, patting his abdomen. To Dean's honed eye, no matter Ron's pretense, Dean suspected he had nothing but muscle there.

"Thanks anyway," Ron continued.

"Happy Christmas, then, a bit early," Dean said, striding over and enfolding Ron in a hug. It felt… large. They were the same height, which was certainly novel, but Ron's frame was far wider and stocky than anyone else Dean had been close to. As Ron returned the hug, his wide palms resting solidly on his shoulder blades, Dean eased a bit into the embrace. Fucking hell, but it felt good to be held by someone with a bit of brawn. Dean felt embarrassed for himself and stepped back as Ron also wished him an early Happy Christmas, his breath smelling sweetly of tea and brandy.

"Don't forget, come over on Boxing Day," Ron said, poking Dean in the middle of his chest. "Don't know that it'll be at all raucous, but I've got a big telly if nothing else."

"The Melbourne Test match'll be on," Dean said excitedly. "Have you ever watched Muggle cricket?" he asked. The answer was easy enough to guess given Ron's blank look at the mention of the sport.

"Nope. You'll have to explain it to me."

"I will. And I'll bring takeout. You like curry?"

"More than I should," Ron said, his smile quirking to one side. "I really should go. Presents to wrap, shite like that." He gave Dean another passing hug, this time placing his hands closer to Dean's waist.

"See you!" Dean called once Ron was down the steps. Ron turned and waved before walking purposefully down the road to the Apparition point two blocks down, sheltered by a row of hedges. Dean convinced himself that he was only watching the movement of Ron's arse in his stride as material for making sure his portrait would be as lifelike and accurate as possible.

Dean spent the evening making himself some dinner, taking two aggravated telephone calls from his mum, the only person for whom he would have bothered with a telephone in the first place, and wrapping some gifts of his own. Once he was ready for bed and got under he covers, he lay on his side, growing frustrated when sleep refused to come. Fumbling around for his wand, he lit two bedside candles and Summoned one of his smaller sketchbooks. Turning a piece of charcoal in his fingers, he assured himself that this was just a silly phase he was going through. He'd not had a shag in ages and there really _was_ something comforting about being around an old school friend— especially one as striking and unrefinedly good looking as Ron had become. He drew another larger, more detailed and provocative figure drawing of Ron, or at least how he envisioned Ron might look when sprawled naked and partially aroused on a couch. Dean pencilled in shadows and hard lines; he used feathered strokes for the whorls of hair between his legs and purposeful arcs for the ridges or biceps and thighs. The hooded eyelids took a bit of smudging to get the way he wanted, then there was the faint dimple and upturned lip to try and capture a faint 'come-hither' quirked smile he imagined Ron would use on whomever the fortunate bloke was he was offering his body to.

Almost guiltily, Dean cast a hushed _Animus_ on the picture, figuring that his sketched-Ron wouldn't do much. He was right, but the hungry look in Ron's eyes and the way he glanced down at his half-hard cock before languidly taking himself in hand and daring the viewer not to watch was too compelling for Dean to resist. He scooted down the bed, shucking his boxers as he did, lying down and propping himself up on his elbow, his posture mirroring that of drawing-Ron. Dean didn't waste much time bringing himself to completion while the sketch watched from the page, sometimes rolling his sac in his meaty fingers, sometimes merely lying in repose. After his silent, molten release, Dean cleaned himself up, gently stroking the angle of the sketch-Ron's hipbone. He was a bit startled when Ron looked down where Dean's finger was, but the drawing soon returned his focus back outside of the picture, smiling more broadly so that the dimple in his cheek was more pronounced.

"Reckon your portrait won't be that much of a challenge," Dean said softly to the picture. "But I'd best keep this put away somewhere. He doesn't need to think I'm perving on him, not when we're friends and all that."

Despite his best intentions, however, Dean propped up the sketch and watched his drawing for a few more moments before blowing out his candle and dropping off to sleep.

* * * * *

"Oh Dean, it's stunning! What an extravagant gift!" Imogen said in her rich, low voice, the hint of tears gleaming in her eyes. She jumped up from her usual spot by Seamus to rush over to Dean and gave him a surprisingly strong hug, given her petite size. Dean smiled sheepishly over her shoulder at Seamus, who merely shook his head, marvelling at the sizeable wedding portrait in its ornate frame. Dean had called in a favour at one of the frame shops he frequented, choosing one of carved oak which complimented the tree in the portrait under which the newlyweds stood.

"Thanks so much, mate." Seamus couldn't seem to stop shaking his head at it, his fingers straying up above the canvas, watching the two of them as they looked out at the guests beyond the frame, holding hands, then Seamus pulling Imogen to him for a hasty kiss. "Bloody brilliant, this is."

"Thanks. I mean, you're welcome," Dean said with a laugh, patting his sister on the back before she went and sat next to Seamus again. "You'll never believe what I'm about to start on now, all thanks to that Hogwarts show."

"What's that?" his mum asked, entering the room with a tray filled with tea and saucers. Dean's youngest sister trailed behind her with a basket of Christmas crackers.

"New portrait. Commission, but I'm giving the gent a bit of a break, price-wise."

"Dean, you're always doing that," his mother admonished as Dean got up to move some of the piles of wrapping papers out of the way.

"Mum, it's not as though I've ever had many commissions, so I can't always be doing anything!" he challenged, clearing a space for the vast tray and steaming cups of cinnamon tea. "Besides, this'll be a fun one, hardly work at all. I'm painting Ron Weasley, classmate of ours from Hogwarts. He's Keeper for the new Green Knights team up in Glasgow."

"Ron? You're doing a portrait of Ron?!" Seamus blustered before bursting out into peals of laughter. "I'd not really thought of him as the portrait type. Must be more vain than I thought."

"He's not vain," Dean said, jumping to Ron's defence. "But his mum didn't have one done because he left Hogwarts without finishing properly. All of the rest of his siblings have them."

"And he wouldn't want to be different," Seamus said, rolling his eyes.

"Wasn't he at the wedding?" Imogen asked, giving Seamus a swat on the knee before linking her arm in his. "I think I remember his name, but that day was mostly a blur."

"Sweets, you'd remember. Only other bloke there as tall as Dean, but looks a fair sight different."

"Thanks for not saying he's more attractive," Dean quipped.

"Oh! Him!" Imogen gushed, tapping her fingers on Dean's arm as she accepted a Christmas cracker from his youngest sister Clara's outstretched hand. "Ginger hair, freckles, gorgeous blue eyes. I remember," she said, nodding and an appreciative smile blooming on her lips. "Nicely done, Dean."

"Hey, now." Seamus nudged at his new wife. "You're only supposed to have eyes for me, remember?" He nosed at her temple, nipping at her earlobe and causing a flush to rise on her ebony cheeks.

"Seamus, leave off, there're children about," Dean said, his voice mock chastising. "Ron's just a friend, Imogen. But he is a looker, in his own way."

"Does he have to be just a friend?" she asked provocatively. Seamus began tickling her mercilessly. "What?!" she squawked. "Leave off, you big brute!"

"Stop playing matchmaker, Síofra," he said as she shoved him over.

"Careful of the portrait," Dean said, wincing slightly as his sister's foot kicked out toward the canvas. "It's got the usual repelling charms on it, but they won't help against outright destruction." He cocked his head to the side. "What did you just call her?" he asked Seamus.

"Síofra. Only when she's acting slightly wicked," Seamus said with a wink. "Besides, Ron's not exactly your type, is he?"

"My type?" Dean said, irritated when his voice cracked. "Didn't know I had a type."

"Tall and blond, mate. Or sandy-haired, at least."

"That's not true," Dean countered until he went through the admittedly short list of blokes Seamus would have seen him with. "Well, okay, maybe it is, but that's pure chance."

"Right," Imogen drawled, nodding slowly. "Well, think what you will. Sounds as though you could use some variety, and this one's dropped into your lap."

Dean's pulse sped up for a moment as a remembered moment from his wank flashed through his mind. "No, don't think so," he said as Seamus nonverbally concurred with him, shaking his head. "Don't reckon I'm his type. We're friends. Mates from school. That's all."

"Seamus and I were friends first," Imogen said unhelpfully, leaning against him as he draped an arm around her waist. Seamus sat, beaming, the contentment radiating from him.

"Right. Well, I think I'll go see if mum needs any help in the kitchen." Dean levered up out of the chair, making his way through the chaos of his other siblings and their friends, romantic and otherwise. The gnawing resentment of seeing Seamus so happy, but not with him, had returned. He didn't wish to feed that slumbering creature any more in the faint hopes that it would eventually go away.

Dean had to duck under the doorframe to get into the kitchen — it was an older house, and not meant for someone his size.

"Oh, Dean! Would you mind reaching up into that cabinet? I'd like that serving plate on the top shelf," his mother said, whipping up a vat of mashed potatoes and leeks while one of Dean's sisters and sister-in-law huddled over a pan of cookies, icing them and speaking in low whispers.

Dean retrieved the plate and put it off to the side, surveying the organised frenetic activity. "Am I in the way?" he asked, uncertain of what was next to do on his mother's mental list.

"No— just keep me company," she said, looking up from her bowl and wiping a hand on her apron. "I'm glad your show went well and that your friend Ron will be around." She paused, and Dean braced himself for the question he knew was coming. "So are you seeing anyone? You know I'd be happy for you to bring any of your companions over."

The burbled commentary of the two young women came to a halt, evidently waiting for Dean's reply. It wasn't that Dean felt odd or unaccepted by his family about his orientation, but since presumably he would be the only one not to get married, and he was the only magical person in the family — aside from Seamus, now — he did feel put on the spot since he and Patric had called it quits.

"Thanks mum, but no, I'm not with anybody at the moment. Quite content doing the starving artist bit on my own."

She looked at him, her expression tempered with pity. "Well, I suppose I'm glad to hear that. I'm just so fond of Seamus, I wish that there was someone like him who's like you are—"

"Queer, mum, the word you're looking for is queer," Dean snapped, his relative peace having gnarled up into knots of resentment and inadequacy. "Sorry, I'm just a bit frustrated. Not at you," he clarified, as he could tell his mother had taken his brief outburst personally. "Think I'll go for a walk."

She nodded, rubbing a hand on his arm before resuming her task with the creamy mound of potatoes. "Don't be gone long; we'll be ready to eat in half an hour."

Out on the footpath, Dean swung his arms as he walked, releasing some of his tension. He loved his family, but the inquisitions were not at all enjoyable. He decided to duck out as soon as he could, vowing to treat himself to a soak in the bathtub, and to some more of George's tempered cannabis. With that to look forward to, he slowed his pace and savoured the soggy chill of winter until he returned to the beckoning warmth of his mother's house.

* * * *

It was a few weeks later when, frustrated with himself, Dean eased the speed of his footsteps as he tried to focus on what song was stuck in a loop in his head. The lyrics and sultry ambiance had ebbed in and out of his awareness through the day, but he'd not taken the time to listen to his inner 'radio' to place it. A nearby _crack!_ startled him so much that he nearly dropped his bag of paints and he swore under his breath.

"Hi! Sorry," a familiar voice said before its owner stepped away from the hedgerow where he'd Apparated. Ron had a small leather pack strapped over his shoulders and wore a sheepish smile. "Didn't expect you to be walking by just then. Or anyone."

"It's fine." Dean shrugged. "I should apologise— I was almost late anyway. Got caught up at The Artist's Apothecary, a fabulous place for art supplies. I always end up browsing around for longer than I mean to," he said as they walked the few blocks to Dean's flat.

"What'd you get?" Ron asked, holding the sack as Dean pretended to unlock the front door to his building, though he simply muttered an _Alohamora_.

"Look and see," Dean suggested while they climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. "Not really all that exciting. Couple of replacement brushes and a few new tubes of paint."

"Vermilion? Cerulean? Saffron. _That_ one at least I recognise!" Ron said with a small laugh as they went into the flat. "The others sound like nasty diseases, if you ask me."

"I quite like the exotic colour names," Dean admitted before he made his way to their familiar location in the studio.

Ron, as usual, had brought a few Orkney Skullsplitters with him and stopped by the kitchen to put them in Dean's fridge, but he quickly joined Dean in the large room. He enlarged his rucksack and began changing out of his denims and untucked button-down into his Quidditch uniform. Dean scanned his music selection, both Muggle CDs and wizarding discs, trying to find the INXS album that had the song "Not Enough Time." He'd finally figured out that was the tune which had been haunting him earlier.

"You know, we should go out. To a club or something," Ron said enthusiastically, pulling on his tight leggings over equally tight briefs without a shred of embarrassment.

Dean had seen his nearly naked form enough times to commit it to memory; Ron certainly had no reason to be anything but proud of his fit physique. As Ron put on the rest of his gear, Dean mulled over the offer — offer? — or suggestion. He didn't think Ron was interested in him that way, or if he was, he was so subtle that Dean hadn't picked up on any clues despite their vastly increased time together. Dean's affection and appreciation of his former Housemate and fellow War veteran had grown exponentially over the past several weeks. As fond as he was of Ron, Dean knew that subtlety was not one of Ron's strengths.

"You want us to go out?" he clarified, putting on the CD and crossing over to the window to open it a few inches to let in a bit of crisp fresh air.

"Yeah! Reckon it'd be good! I've not had a pull in ages, but also it'd be pretty fun to be out with you, somewhere besides your flat or mine. Or are you busy? Bloody hell, that was pretty presumptuous. Nice one, Ron," he mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes.

"No, I think it's a great idea," Dean said, but his heart wasn't in it. The idea of going out with Ron was very appealing, in a way that made him second-guess his own motivations. By his own admission, however, Ron wanted to go out to get some arse, and wanted some companionship while he did so. The more he thought about it, the less appealing it seemed: watching Ron pick someone up for a casual shag or whatever else didn't seem like an uplifting evening, especially when Dean wasn't drinking and would be surrounded by people getting absolutely pissed. He supposed he could always get stoned and go…

"That wasn't especially convincing," Ron said, tilting his head and rubbing at a spot on his jaw. "I probably shouldn't have suggested it, but I just thought, us both liking the same thing, and both reasonably good-looking, well, you are, anyway, and we don't have to go with the plan to have a wild shag or something like that, but you're just a really good bloke and good company, and—"

"Ron," Dean interrupted. "I think it's a fine idea. I have the perfect place, at least to go and enjoy the eye candy. I've not picked anyone up there; that's not really my scene. But we should go," he repeated, setting up his easel. "You can get as snockered as you'd like, and if you need help getting home, I'll be there. There's a place here in London I've gone to on occasion, Nine Inch Males. Heard of it?"

Ron's expression was beatific, and lascivious. "No, but it sounds wicked!" he gushed as Dean situated himself to paint. "Are the blokes there really…" he gestured with a cradled hand held out a distance from his groin.

"Oh yes," Dean assured him. "But that's not a necessary requirement to get in," he said, winking.

"Brilliant."

Dean squeezed out the last of his nearly empty vermilion tube and the other colours he thought he'd need to finish out Ron's hair and face. He wouldn't require Ron to be there in person after today; the background Quidditch pitch and scenery he would fill in from photographs. Ron assumed his pose and Dean began painting. The afternoon passed as it so often had with them talking sometimes and lapsing into a comfortable silence at others, listening to the music that Dean usually had on a kind of rotation. He liked to have certain styles of music going on when he was working on particular paintings, and Cousteau and other singers he considered vocally erotic but not outright stimulating had figured prominently in his mixes for Ron's portrait. He and Ron took several breaks, Ron for his beer and Dean for the occasional clove cigarette.

Around six o'clock, Ron changed back into his usual garb and got ready to go, saying he'd meet Dean at the club the upcoming Saturday night at ten.

"Looking forward to it!" Ron said, enfolding Dean in his customary friendly embrace at the door.

Dean gave him a squeeze at the small of his back, relishing the habitual physical affection he'd been getting while Ron had been visiting so regularly. A pang of loss nudged uncomfortably on Dean's well-being as he fathomed just how effortlessly Ron's presence had become an anticipated part of his life, and how much he would miss it once that routine was gone.

"You okay?" Ron asked, though he didn't let go.

With a start, Dean realised he'd been nosing slightly against Ron's head, taking deep inhales of the apple-leafy scent of his hair. He stood back, clapping Ron on the shoulder, still grateful that they literally saw eye to eye.

"Yeah. Just feeling a bit clingy. If you hang around me for too much longer, you'll get to see all of my bad sides. I've been on my best behaviour," he said, keeping things light-hearted.

"Well, I'd hope by now you'd just want to be yourself around me." Ron let his hand rest on Dean's hip, tapping the waistband of his denims with his thumb. "Reckon we go back too far and have been through enough to be honest and nothing else. Right?"

"Too right," Dean agreed, overcome with desires and wants that seemed inappropriate and that he simply didn't want to deal with right then and there, in his narrow entryway. "So I'll see you Saturday, ten-ish?"

"Yeah." Ron kept looking thoughtfully at him. "You sure you're okay? Merlin knows I've gone on and on to you about my tripe…" Ron's invitation to talk further hung in the air until Dean shook his head.

"No, not now, but thanks. And have a good game tomorrow; I'll be listening to the match."

"Mate, as soon as I do the bloody paperwork the team manager insists I fill out, you're going to have box seats for the next decade!"

Ron's demeanour had switched to his more usual lively self, and Dean was thankful for it. "You're the best. Cheers."

Once Ron was safely out of the flat, Dean went back into the studio to look at the portrait. He took out his slim silver case and got a clove cigarette, savouring the herbal scent as he regarded his work. It was an amazing likeness, if he did say so himself. Ron's rugged but approachable personality radiated from the canvas, even without the spell that would animate him as well as the scene behind him. He was especially proud of Ron's hands and lips; he'd spent perhaps an inordinate amount of time focussing on the way Ron held things, or drummed his fingers, or the way he tended to loosely intertwine his fingers and hold them, inverted, with his palms up, when he sat. Ron didn't gesture much with his hands— he wasn't at all flamboyant, but they were expressive nonetheless. Ron's mouth had given Dean all kinds of fits in that his lips were fairly thin, but with a pronounced bow on the top that made them appear more lush. Dean hadn't skimped on attention to his eyes, either, with their robin's egg blue colour that reflected other shades, especially when Ron wore green or navy. All in all, he was quite pleased with how the portrait was turning out, and Ron seemed to share the sentiment.

If only Dean felt the same about his own feelings for Ron as a person, and friend, and an attractive man, to further complicate matters.

* * * * *

"Hey there!" Ron called out with a small wave as Dean navigated his way over to the bar. Ron stood out, and not just due to his height, though since he was leaning on the bar and not sitting down, he was quite easy to spot. He'd left his hair down, which he normally kept in a short ponytail at the base of his skull, and he was wearing distinctively non-clubby clothes, dressed in a black v-neck jumper with a t-shirt underneath, though his black denims were nice and snug, showing off his muscular legs.

"Hey! You found it," Dean observed, turning to order a virgin Vampire's Kiss from the bartender.

"Yeah. Great place," Ron said, grinning widely and thumbing toward the stage. "They're really— yeah. Nine inches at least!"

Dean snickered, toasting Ron with his blood-red drink. Ron had a shot of something Dean didn't recognise, but the licquorice smell from it was overwhelming. Evidently his curiosity showed on his face, because after he downed it, Ron said, "Ouzo. Liquorice liqueur. Yummy stuff, pretty potent. Want some?"

Dean shook his head, his mouth already open to tell Ron to shut up as he began to apologise about forgetting, yet again.

"I'm sorry!" he said loudly above the throbbing music.

"Shut up!" Dean replied with a smile, drinking half of his non-alcoholic cocktail. "So! Been here long?"

"No. Just about fifteen minutes. Thought you and I might go a bit closer and see some of the dancers. Whaddya say?"

"Sure! A couple are pretty impressive."

"Reckon if they work here they're all pretty impressive," Ron leered, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You're so easy!" Dean exclaimed as they threaded their way through the thronging, buff men dancing around them.

"Yeah, well, I'm a queer bloke who's not seen cock in a while. Can't blame me for being a bit excited about that, can you?"

"Not at all!" Dean laughed, edging closer behind him when he noticed the many beckoning and prurient looks they were getting from several of the men they passed. It wasn't that he was trying to lay a claim on Ron, since he really didn't know what his intentions were, but unfortunately his possessive nature was coming out in full force. He'd need to mellow that down or he'd end up embarrassing himself and getting in the way of Ron hooking up with whomever caught his eye, if someone did.

They watched a couple of the dancers strip down until their impressive packages were barely contained by their thongs, putting some Muggle money in the thin strip held the thing on. Once a dancer decided he'd made enough money, he went full monty. Dean couldn't resist giving Ron a hard time back at the bar about his wide eyes and needing a drool cup.

"Obviously you've been living more like a hermit than you've let on," Dean said, lighting a clove cigarette and drinking a glass of Muggle soda.

"No, mate, but shite! That one bloke was monstrous!"

"Yeah, just imagine that pounding away into you," Dean said provocatively, raising his eyebrows at Ron's startled expression. "Ah. Not a bottom, are we?"

Ron asked for a double whiskey and then vigorously shook his head. "Nope. Nothing wrong with that, of course," he said quickly before he downed it and asked for a second. "Just, um, no. Tried it a few times, and it's all right, but not what I really like, y'know," he said, his endearing embarrassment reflected at the flush in his cheeks. Or perhaps it was just from the heat of the room.

"Everybody has their preference." Dean took his time enjoying another cigarette, and decided he wanted something a bit stronger. "I'm just off to the loo; back in a bit."

"Right. I'll be here, scoping things out," Ron said, evidently comfortable again, the enthusiasm for being at the club obvious in his relaxed posture.

"Okay. And like I said before, if you want to crash at my place, feel free. All I ask is that if you do come over, don't bring anyone with you."

"I wouldn't dream of that!" Ron said, the insult apparent in his voice. "Don't know that I want a pull tonight, anyway. I'm just here to have a good time with you and enjoy the sights." His crooked grin sent a warm thrill straight to Dean's cock, and his leather trousers left nothing to the imagination.

"I'm glad," Dean said honestly, ruffling his hands in Ron's hair in a spontaneous gesture which Ron didn't appear to mind. "Back in a few."

Ron drank his third double whiskey, wincing a bit before giving Dean a concerned look. "Are you…" his voice trailed off. "Be careful. Cleansing charm and all that, especially with Muggles."

"Thanks, I'm not doing that. Just, well, enjoying a Wheezes product not actually sold in the shop," Dean said, mimicking holding a joint.

"Oh." Ron's face lit up with a wicked smile. "I didn't know that you smoked that stuff! You'll have to share some next time I'm over. See you."

Dean nodded before heading back to the toilets and the alley beyond. He was propositioned several times while outside, but turned all of the men down. A couple of them were quite attractive, which did loads for his ego. When he came back, feeling far more laid-back and knowing the effects would continue on for some time, he found Ron swaying slightly, wearing an expression of relief.

"Glad'yre back!" he slurred slightly, easing up to his full height and collecting himself. "Let's dance!"

"You want to dance?" Ron didn't seem like the type, but Dean was in an increasingly indulgent frame of mind.

"Yeah!" Ron tugged Dean by the hand, oblivious to the dejected look given him by a pair of very young, olive-skinned identical twins with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. "You're my date, right?"

"Dunno!" Dean yelled, having to raise his voice now that they were approaching the wide-open dance floor. "Am I?"

Desire tumbled through him, settling in his groin, while his now-uninhibited longings buzzing heatedly in his chest.

"You're bloody gorgeous. Meant to tell you before now," Ron said, his hot, tangy breath spoken into Dean's ear.

Dean's cock stiffened at that. His ears were highly sensitive and — Merlin! — it was bliss to be pressed against Ron, his arms draped over his wide shoulders, Ron's sloppy smile seeming more sincere than foolish.

"You think so?" he asked, his own voice husky from smoking and the lust pulsing barely restrained under his skin. A faint inner voice suggested reasonably that Ron was far more plastered than he let on, and he himself was stoned to top it off, and this could all lead to a Very Bad Scene in the morning.

"You're fucking beautiful," came out of Dean's mouth regardless. Seconds later, Ron was kissing him with a passionate fervour Dean hadn't even allowed himself to imagine. They snogged, turning slowly in a circle, tongues sliding and battling each other and Ron was making delicious moaning sounds until Dean finally forced himself to draw back to make sure he was still breathing. Ron was back on him in a moment, nipping and sucking on Dean's lips, and Dean was drowning and _ohfuck_ he was hard and aching and wanted to get out of there NOW.

"Back to my flat?" he suggested at last, leaning back just far enough to look into Ron's eyes, the last shred of his common sense having held sway for a few seconds to make sure Ron at least had most of his faculties.

"Yes," Ron said throatily, his voice a low rumbling command that made Dean grind his hips against Ron's to get as much friction as possible.

"You really want me?" Dean said, his hands clutching at Ron's squarish backside.

"Yes, you. Don't you want me?" he asked a bit thickly, losing his balance before catching himself and rubbing his hard erection into Dean's thigh.

"Gods, yes."

Ron smiled slowly, his slightly bloodshot eyes hooded and his pupils dilated with lust. He leaned in and kissed Dean full on the lips, tender and thorough and deep as he plundered Dean's mouth with his tongue, making needy, pleased noises in his throat.

It took some doing, extricating themselves from the swarm of men, retrieving their coats and trying to keep a semblance of decorum as they walked and stumbled to the street. Dean hailed a Muggle cab, recognising that Apparition was out of the question. They groped and kissed all the way back, much to the amusement of their female cabbie from the few surreptitious glances Dean made up to her rear-view mirror. At last they were safely to his flat. Dean headed to his bathroom, casting an _Incendio_ in his small fireplace. He looked at himself in the mirror as he took a piss, seeing how debauched and happy he appeared, and he smiled at his reflection.

Ron took a turn in the bathroom while Dean moved a table out of the way so they could lie down in front of the fire. He really was a romantic sap when it came down to it, especially when he'd had some of George's pot. He frowned a bit at the half-finished Skullsplitter Ron had left on the dining room table, but he knew that Ron's tolerance was more than adequate.

"C'mere," he said, arms wide open when Ron reappeared. Dean couldn't restrain himself, at last about to run his fingers and lips over the skin he'd glimpsed week after week as Ron had changed into his Quidditch gear. Ron returned his enthusiasm, sucking on his neck strong enough to leave marks, the thought of which made tingles shoot down all the way to Dean's toes.

"Too many clothes," Ron said, his lips pressed against Dean's sensitive earlobe.

Dean's body throbbed in agreement, his heart racing as they both got undressed. He found himself murmuring, "Beautiful, beautiful, gods Ron, want you so much," and helping Ron out of his denims because he was far too slow to Dean's liking. He let out a hiss of pleasure when he saw Ron hadn't been wearing any pants underneath, feeling grateful and possessive now that Ron had come home with him. Kissing and groaning at the exquisite touch of skin on skin, Dean found his way to the carpeted floor, bringing Ron with him. He'd had the presence of mind to cast a cushioning charm and had Accio'ed a couple of pillows from his small study.

Ron moved over to lie on his back, arms cradled behind his head. Dean drank in the sight of his lightly-furred pectorals, the persimmon trail of hair which narrowed across his muscled abdomen, then bloomed into lush curls at the base of his cock. He got up on his hands and knees above him before lowering down, thrusting against Ron's pelvis and intertwining his fingers with Ron's. He kissed across the coppery stubbled expanse of Ron's jaw and took possession of his mouth, his heart thumping a patter of _all mine, all mine_ as he sucked on Ron's tongue. Adrenaline and need had set his nerves on fire; his steely cock ached as it slid against Ron's equally hard shaft. The feel of the small bars through Ron's nipples against his own slightly fuzzy chest felt almost barbaric and titillating— he had to quit kissing Ron so he could scoot back and grasp one of the rosy nubs with its piercing in his teeth. Ron gasped and moaned, writhing beneath him as Dean plied his attentions on the other side of his chest.

Ron's cock twitched, jabbing into Dean's thigh as he rolled his tongue around Ron's pierced pink nipples. Dean decided to bring Ron off in his mouth, at least this first time. He looked up from Ron's chest, fixing him with a sultry gaze, and promised, "I'm going to give you one of the best orgasms you've ever had."

Only after the words had left his mouth did he think about that being a bit presumptuous, but Ron didn't seem to mind.

"Fuck, Dean, oh gods," Ron said, getting up on his elbows to watch as Dean backed down his body to the thatch of auburn curls and reddened cock standing up from it, demanding attention.

Dean knew he was quite talented at giving head, and he put all of his skill into tending to Ron's cock until he heard Ron's warning babbles and profanity. He rolled Ron's heavy sac in his fingers, keeping his mouth firmly around Ron's pulsing length as he shouted, the vinegarsweet fluid coursing into his mouth and sliding down his throat. He smiled around the softening flesh, taking a last lick from the crown as Ron let out a wounded noise and slid back to the floor.

"Amazing. You're absolutely amazing," Ron said, his raspy voice sliding over Dean's skin like the slow drag of a warm tongue.

"Thank you," Dean replied with a sly smile, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Ron eased back up to his elbows, the sated glow on his face enough to make Dean's heart stumble over itself. He'd liked making Patric happy, it was true, but the utter satisfaction Dean now felt was far more profound than any torrid sex he'd had with his former boyfriend.

"I'd like to take care of you now," Ron said hungrily, licking his lips and giving Dean a scorching look.

"I'd like for you to," Dean said, sitting back on his heels and lightly stroking himself. His cock ached to be handled fiercely, but mostly Dean craved Ron's fingers on him; everywhere, anywhere.

"Why don't you lie down on your stomach," Ron suggested, easing up from the floor and padding over to the table to his neglected beer.

Dean wasn't sure what Ron had in mind, but if it had to do with his back and arse, he was more than okay with whatever Ron was planning. As he turned over, placing a pillow under his hips and adjusting his erection, he heard Ron's noisy swallows and then the bottle being placed on the table. A bit nervous, Dean flexed his arse, knowing he was exposed and on display for Ron for the first time. He cast a cleansing spell on himself, loud enough for Ron to hear. He found goosebumps springing up on his arms and legs as he felt Ron sink to the floor behind him. Dean couldn't help it— he had to know what expression was on Ron's face, what he was doing. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked over his shoulder, catching Ron's gaze as he glanced down at him.

"You've a gorgeous arse," Ron said appreciatively, his eyes still heavy-lidded. "Been admiring it for a while, actually. So round, and squeezable, not flat like mine," he said with a disparaging tone.

"You won't hear me complain."

"I like yours," Ron repeated decisively despite his decreased enunciation. He stretched out behind Dean after trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses from the base of his spine to one arse cheek and then the other.

Dean was transfixed, rutting slowly into the pillow, wanting to wank himself and desperate to know what Ron was going to do. Ron hadn't recovered nearly enough to be ready for a proper shag, but Dean didn't mind that.

"I'd like to taste you," Ron murmured into the juncture of Dean's arse and upper thigh, his fingers teasing at the damp skin at the top of his legs. "Do you like that? Or is that too much? Too soon for that?"

"Godric, no," Dean said, exhaling a shuddering breath. He loved being rimmed, if the giver enjoyed it. That had only happened on a very few occasions, but they were quite memorable.

"Good," Ron growled, and Dean felt as though his blood had turned molten; a faint prickling above his eyebrows indicated the presence of a light sheen of sweat. Ron nudged him so that Dean put his head down and had his hips and arse up in the air, the easier for Ron to spread him open and flick his tongue around the sensitive, puckered flesh.

Dean's insides were knotted with the agonising anticipation of such an intimate gesture: Ron, his former Housemate, sometime confidante, former drinking friend and current client with an appealing sense of humour, stunning body and tragic past relationship, was about to stick his tongue inside of him and kiss and lick and Merlin only knew what else around his clenching, normally-hidden hole.

Dean rained moans and gasps and embarrassing, broken cries as Ron enthusiastically set to his task. If Dean had thought he was good at sucking cock, his erotic prowess was matched by Ron's abilities at rimming. Dean panted and groaned, whimpering as he pulled on his painfully hard prick, blinking away a few rogue tears that sprang to his eyes at how bloody fantastic it felt. From the soles of his feet, Dean felt his orgasm building until his balls had drawn up and the hand with which he'd been fisting his cock slowed. He tried valiantly to postpone the inevitable, still chanting a litany of wordless pleading whimpers with each breath. Ron was making indecent wet smacking noises as his tongue speared into Dean's channel. His face rubbed back and forth as his tongue wriggled around, all while he kept up his own rumbling enthusiastic grunts.

"Ron, Ron, oh fuck, ahhhh!" Dean's release careened through him, thick gouts of come fountaining over his fingers as he rocked back and forth. His cries ebbed as his body trembled through with the aftershocks of such an intense surrender. Ron nuzzled Dean's right arsecheek before moving away to slide gracelessly down alongside him on the floor. He wiped at his mouth while Dean sagged his chest into the floor, turning his head to look over at Ron with a glazed expression.

A tender, self-satisfied smile graced Ron's lips. "Like that?"

Dean nodded, all at once exhausted and wanting nothing more than to tumble into his cosy bed, bringing Ron with him, wrapping him in his arms and going straight to sleep. Carefully Dean stretched out on his side, gazing mutely at Ron, tracing his lips and eyebrows with his finger.

"You're amazing," was all Dean could think to say, leaning in to place a set of chaste, mouthed kisses on his lips. "Care to come to bed?" he whispered against Ron's mouth.

"Sounds brilliant."

"I'll get a toothbrush and some pyjama bottoms for you." Dean regretfully peeled himself up from the floor.

"I can just borrow a pair of boxers," Ron offered through a yawn, and Dean smiled.

"Okay."

Once their unhurried ablutions were complete, Dean cast a _Nox_ on his lights and spooned alongside Ron, who said that he always slept on his back.

"G'night Ron," he murmured against Ron's shoulder, one arm draped over his chest.

Ron turned his head to kiss Dean on the forehead, the gesture so comforting and natural for a moment Dean thought he'd burst from the utter contentment of it all.

"G'night."

* * * * *

The heady scent of Irish tea permeated Dean's consciousness as he slowly crossed the bounds into full wakefulness. He stretched through a yawn, scratching at his head until the evening's activities and sudden remembering of his guest hit him with the force of a Bludger. Ron must have gotten up and gone to the kitchen and made tea. Dean couldn't help the anticipatory grin that resolutely plastered itself on his face; feeling unabashedly at peace and rather a sap, he leaned over to see if he could smell Ron's distinctive woodsy-cinnamon scent on his pillow. It indeed lingered there in the soft t-shirt sheeting Dean had grown to love.

He forced himself out of bed, taking a quick stop in his bathroom and pulling on a sweatshirt before padding out into the living room. The sight of Ron sitting at the dining room table, his brows slightly furrowed and his gaze downcast sent icy trickles of disillusion through Dean's serenity, lodging like a mass in his stomach. Ron's expression changed when he looked up, his appearance transforming to one of apology and embarrassment.

"Morning," he croaked, clearing his throat before trying again. "Hi there. Made some tea, hope you don't mind," Ron soldiered on, smiling in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Not at all," Dean said, moving like an automaton into his kitchen to pour himself a cup of tea. His formerly buoyant spirits felt as though they'd been pummelled and left bleeding in a corner somewhere.

_"You're an adult, Dean, get a fucking grip,"_ he admonished himself. _"Merlin knows how many times you got drunk and were a royal cock-up."_

That was true, and reassuring in a way, but the self-knowledge only made him feel worse now that he was on the receiving end of it.

"You're awfully quiet," Ron said from the table. "Sorry if I woke you."

"'S'alright," Dean assured him, bringing his tea and taking a seat next to Ron, who looked dishevelled in a manner too endearing to Dean's liking. He decided to cut straight to it; they were both bloody adults. "Look, Ron, do you remember anything about last night?"

Ron's chagrined expression confirmed Dean's assumptions. "Not a whole lot. Things're rather a blur after we left that great club, but I'm glad I'm with you, believe you me."

Mouth closed, Dean licked the front of his teeth before blowing on his tea and taking a sip. "I do, actually. I've had my share of mornings waking up and not knowing what in Hades I'd done the night before, so I'm not going to fault you or anything. But I am disappointed."

Ron sank further into his seat, taking great interest in the teacup he held in his hands, unable or unwilling to look over at Dean. Dean didn't want to rub Ron's face in it, truly he didn't, but he was also determined to finish out his peace.

"I'm only disappointed because you were so into me. You were bloody unreal, passionate and an amazing kisser, among other things," he said wistfully, tapping the edge of the porcelain cup. "Guess you don't remember how great that all was."

Ron looked over, raw regret etched painfully on his features. "Not as well as you do. But I know I felt good that I was making you feel good. But the rest…" his voice trailed off.

Dean took pity on him. "You didn't promise undying love or anything," he said, sarcasm edging into his voice.

"No, I wouldn't've," Ron said firmly. "Nothing against you, at all. But since Harry, I don't know when I'll ever say stuff like that again."

Dean nodded, noticing how rough Ron appeared, slumped in his chair, his jumper and t-shirt still pungent with the smell of cigarette smoke from the club.

"Can I make you something? Toast with marmalade? Or Nutella? Nothing like a little bread and chocolate to make you feel better."

Ron looked so grateful and relieved, Dean was caught between wanting to crush him to his chest in a hug, and deck him in the jaw.

"That'd be fabulous. I'll just go and get dressed."

Dean puttered around making toast, trying to silence his tumultuous mind. It was frantically projecting forward and wondering just how fucked up things would be between them now, and mulling over whether or not it had been worth it, now that Dean had pretty much figured out he'd been a one-night stand.

"Fuck," he swore quietly at the injustice of it all.

Ron walked in, fully dressed and having taken a comb to his hair. Awkwardly he draped his arm over Dean's shoulder, giving him a short squeeze. "D'you want me to come over on Wednesday, like usual?" he asked.

Dean couldn't tell what kind of response Ron was hoping for, but he vowed to be true to himself and not manipulate things to make them into something they weren't.

"No, but thanks. The portrait is practically finished; I'll work on the background for the next week or so. I've found if I spend too much time with the details of the person, I end up overdoing it somehow and it won't be my best work. I'll leave you be in the painting for a while and evaluate it when the rest is complete." He summoned two plates while digging out a pair of butter knives from a drawer. "I'll owl you and find out a good time for you to come and get it, or I can bring it to you." Dean turned his head, his expression neutral, though emotionally he felt like one big, purpled bruise. "Did you want Nutella? Or raspberry preserves?"

"Just butter's fine."

Ron left shortly thereafter, thanking Dean for breakfast and giving him his customary hug at the door, though Dean didn't hold him as tightly as he usually did. He went through the rest of his Sunday in a fog, mindlessly replying in the affirmative to Seamus' owl about meeting to play squash on Tuesday at four o'clock, and purposefully avoiding his studio. A neglected novel involving Scottish werewolf clans with a decent plot and interesting characters occupied most of his afternoon until he caved in to his rumbling stomach and decided to go out to get fish and chips. It had been ages since he'd had an ale, but he felt despondent and self-pitying and had a couple of pints while he ate, finishing off with a tumbler of firewhiskey for good measure. Once back at his flat, he confronted Ron's portrait in the studio, carefully moving it out of the way and putting his Brazil-inspired triptych work-in-progress in the middle of the room. The effects of the alcohol were just what he'd hoped, dulling the regret and pain of the bitter pill he'd swallowed. He cast a silencing spell on the room, put on the Cousteau album he'd become so fond of and cranked it up. With his pack of clove cigarettes nearby, he stayed up until the early hours of morning, painting and smoking.

* * * * *  
Dean's eyes were burning from the sweat that had slid down his face, but he refused to let up against his opponent. The small blue ball slammed against the court walls, volleyed and smashed with near-maniacal precision, at least on Dean's part. Seamus was running more around the court, and not just due to his far shorter legs. He'd been on his guard ever since they'd met up in the locker room and caught the unintentional brunt end of Dean's lingering dark mood. He and Seamus played squash on at least a weekly basis. One of Imogen's mates was fond of it and Seamus had taken a shine to the aggressive sport while he'd been courting her, but of course he'd managed to get Dean hooked as well.  
  
"Shite! Fuckin' bloody badgerarse!" Seamus swore, panting, as he lost yet another match. "Ye're playin' for blood, you animal! What skrewt shat in your cereal, anyway? Ye've been right nasty, you big git!"

Dean was breathing heavily as well, mulling over how to reply to Seamus' comment. "'M not," he huffed, leaning over and grasping at the bottom of his shorts. "You're just a sore loser."

Seamus paced around the small enclosure, moving his arms in windmill fashion and breathing loudly through his mouth. "What's goin' on? You've had nothing' but a blindin' smile on your face every time I've seen you since Christmas, and now it's like ye're ready to hex anything that moves."

"Bit of an overstatement, that," Dean insisted, standing and stretching before bouncing the small ball against the floor with his racquet. "Just had something on my mind. I'm really not in a bad mood, honest."

"Yeah, and I'm bloody Minister for Magic." Seamus looked him straight in the eye, swinging his racquet in looping arcs at the wrist. "Fine. Don't tell me. I'm only yer best mate. And brother-in-law." He scowled. "'Spose now that Ron's been hangin' around, you think ye don't need me anymore, eh? Some friend you are!"

"It's not like that," Dean growled. He was taken aback at his instinctual response and the venom with which he'd replied. Seamus appeared just as shocked, his mossy-coloured eyes widening with comprehension. It was one of the many things Dean adored about Seamus, especially in regards to their friendship; Seamus was astonishingly intuitive and astute— as long as the perception didn't involve his own self-awareness, of which he remained blithely incognizant.

"What's he done?" Seamus asked, a fire lighting in his eyes that Dean knew well. Seamus wanted to protect Dean, or go after whomever it was who'd insulted or hurt him. It was endearing, though totally unnecessary.

"Look. Ron's a good bloke, really. We'd been spending loads of time together while I was doing his portrait—"

"I bloody well know that, you ponce. 'S'not like you and I haven't talked, but apparently you've been keepin' stuff to yerself. Spill. What's he fucking done to hurt you? I swear I'll rip his—"

"We're all fucking adults," Dean interrupted, the hurt unfurling against the cage of his heart where he'd tried to sequester his feelings. "Thank you for looking out for me, but I can take care of myself."

"Nobody said you couldn't, ye giant berk," Seamus fumed, walking over so he was standing next to him, his gaze livid. "Ye've always let me know what's goin' on. You had some right nasty rows with Patric, but ye always told me about 'em. Even when I was being a prick and didn't really want to know," he added.

A faint bittersweet smile glanced on Dean's lips. Seamus' time of believing he was bisexual hadn't lasted all that long, and his tolerance for Dean's not-infrequent complaining about Patric hadn't run very high.

"You just seem really off. Like ye did before that batty trip to Brazil. Ye can be in a bad mood," Seamus continued, his voice more thoughtful and cajoling. "Just seems like it's more than having yer pants in a twist. And I'll fuckin' kill Ron Weasley if he's the cause. I don't care if I've known him since we were eleven."

"All right, Seamus, enough!" Dean's frustration at himself and how quickly he'd found himself falling for Ron clawed inside his ribs. He gripped the handle of his racquet until his knuckles ached. "Look— we went out to that club you and I went to a couple of times when you were dallying about with the idea of being with blokes."

"That place where all those dancers had such huge tackle?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Anyway, we had a good time, though in retrospect, it probably wasn't the most brilliant idea. He got pretty rat-arsed, we came back to my flat, had a memorable shag— well, I did. He didn't remember much the next morning."

Seamus' face, already red from exertion, was now glowing mutinously.

"Oh, don't give me that look," Dean said, wiping some sweat off of his temple in irritation. "When you and I drank I forgot half of what I did— nearly blinded myself, even. He didn't seem sorry or anything, but he didn't stick around, either. So what? I probably would've done the same thing. It's just that I guess I'd thought things would go back to normal. Or be different, but in a better way. I'm sure when I take over his portrait it'll be fine."

Seamus exhaled loudly, regarding Dean in a manner that indicated he didn't believe a word of his attempt to make light of things.

"You don't just fuck around," Seamus said sagely. "Ye've always been pretty particular about what blokes you shagged. Ron's done wrong by you if he's not even sent a bloody owl or something."

"He didn't owl before," Dean pointed out.

"Ye'd bloody well not had sex before."

Dean's frayed patience was becoming dangerously thin. "I know you care. Truly. Thanks for defending my honour, or whatever it is, my reputation maybe. My pride's had a bit of a blow, but I'll get over it. There. Can we drop it now?"

Seamus continued to hold Dean captive in his gaze until at last he backed down from their stand-off, glancing over at the waiting players on the bench out in the corridor and rubbing at his shoulder. "Yeah. But I'd best not see him anytime soon, or I can't be held responsible for what I do. Ye don't deserve that, especially be somebody who's known you that long. He's an arsehole."

"No, he's human. So'm I. I'll probably go out this weekend, dance and string some blokes along, and go home alone, safe and sound." Even as the words came out of his mouth, Dean knew he had no intention of doing that. He could tell that Seamus would invite him over otherwise, and he really didn't want to deal with a night or two of watching his domestic bliss with Imogen.

"Ye've an open invitation at our place, y'know," Seamus said soothingly, though his tone was still hard enough to tug gratefully at Dean's loyalties. Seamus really wouldn't hesitate to make anyone's life hellish if he felt they'd maligned Dean somehow.

"Thanks mate, really," he said, suffocating the encroaching emotional maelstrom that threatened his tenuous harmony.

A rapping on the glass made them turn around and Seamus gave the player a quick, rude hand gesture before shouting, "We'll be out in a minute!" He jerked his head toward the door. "S'pose we should go."

Dean nodded and they made their way back to the locker room, the tension between them having evaporated. Getting his thoughts out in the open and the physical exercise had put Dean in a better mood, but he was still cautious.

"Don't tell Imogen, promise me," he said as they stripped down and took quick showers, side by side. "I don't want her getting all involved in my personal life. I'll never hear the end of it."

"Not a word," Seamus promised, nicking off with some of Dean's sage-scented shampoo. "I'm serious about you comin' over. I'll be working Saturday, but Friday I can get Ian and some of his mates to come by. We'll play poker. Ye owe me twenty quid anyway!" he said, grinning.

"Some memory you've got. That's from last September!" Dean said with a smile, turning around to rinse off and turn off the taps. "But you're on. I'll be over around eight, all right?"

"Ye'd better. Or I'll come and drag your skinny arse over, whether you like it or not."

"I'd like to see you try," Dean taunted him, feeling far more at ease. As he took the Wizarding bus back to the stop nearest his flat, however, he knew he wouldn't be able to just shake off the profound disappointment he felt, especially if Ron continued his silence. Dean had no intention of bringing up their night together without Ron doing so first, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking how brilliant it had felt to dance with him, their hungry kisses and how at peace he'd been going to sleep with Ron's equally long body pressed up next to his. He _did_ deserve better. But Seamus really would be Minister for Magic before Dean went grovelling to someone who couldn't be bothered even to firecall and say hello after they'd been getting on so well. Once back in his flat, his foul mood returned. He returned to his Brazil canvases, painting, smoking and crooning along with the jilted men in the songs he had put on rotation.

* * * * *  
  
The weekend came and went; Dean did go over to Seamus' Friday evening after all. He had a passably decent time with Seamus and a few of Imogen's friends with whom she'd attended university. They played poker and Dean ended up owing Seamus only four quid, but had promised a small sketch to one of the other guys to make up for a new debt. They also watched a Muggle movie about a bloke whose wife was killed and he kept waking up, having forgotten everything, so he'd write down clues on himself. He ended up being covered with messages he didn't understand, and it struck home a bit more closely than Dean cared to think about. Maybe if he'd written things down, or drawn a picture or something, it would've jogged Ron's memory…

Sunday and Monday Dean forced himself to paint the finishing touches on Ron's portrait. The background had needed a bit of tidying up as Dean was quite particular about sunlight and clouds. Ron had specified that he wanted the time of day to be on the cusp of sunset; not yet dusk, but not mid-day, either. Even though most people wouldn't focus on that element of the painting, Dean really enjoyed the challenge of capturing the particular warm essence of late afternoon, hinting at the upcoming change to the day with washes of terra cotta and rose to the predominantly blue sky.

Then there was Ron himself, his smile slightly crooked and blazingly genuine, one foot on a short bench, the bright viridian and gold of his Green Knights jersey shimmering as though the sun were shining on it. Dean was especially proud of the appearance of his leather vambraces and shin guards. He'd spent no small amount of time ensuring he'd captured every faint rough patch and lustrous sheen to the fine lines of stitching; once he'd carefully painted the near-imperceptible shine from the off-canvas sunlight, he swore he could almost smell the tang of alder tree oil Ron used to keep the leather supple. The likeness wasn't photographic in detail, on purpose. He'd been wary of being too identical like that, as part of the mystery of a portrait was that if the artist was exceptional, or at least exceptionally trained, a hint of the painted individual's aura, an essence of his or her uninhibited magical self, would be instilled in the painting. Such depth to the portraiture couldn't be infused or spell-cast; the energy had to come over time, flowing infinitessiminally from the painter through her or his materials and focus. Dean hadn't cast the _Animus_ yet, but there was such vibrancy in the portrait-Ron that he almost didn't need to.

"You're a fucking amazing artist when you want to be," Dean said quietly to himself Tuesday afternoon, having deemed the painting complete early that morning and having a joint to celebrate, though he was feeling rather dispirited. His upper back ached a bit, so he took a long soak, ordered take-away and ate it, then decided some proper celebrations were in order. He'd sent an owl to Ron's, letting him know the portrait was finished and asking when he'd like to pick it up. Ron's reply had been brief but not cold, asking if Dean could bring it over the next day, around five. There was no mention of their prior weekend's activities, no request for Dean to linger and stay for dinner or tea, nothing.  
  
Seamus' words from their talk on the squash court burbled up as he got dressed, digging out his lace-front black trousers and a lilac silk shirt that was quite striking against his dark skin.

_"You don't just fuck around. Ye've always been pretty particular,"_ Seamus' brogue repeated in his head as he cast a sweat-based Repello on the shirt. Maybe he'd been too particular. Perhaps it was time to live whatever mythic, unattached, queer lifestyle there was out there, with loads of sex and no long-term responsibilities. It had its appeal, certainly to his newly-awakened libido. Looking at himself in the mirror, he _Accio_ 'ed his hair gel and rubbed some into his still short dreadlocks. Growing out his hair was a pain in the arse, but he really liked how it looked. He gave himself a once-over, trying a trick one of his art professors had suggested when they'd worked on self-portraits. He imagined the man in the mirror was an absolute stranger, totally unfamiliar and, in this scenario, walking up to him at a club.

Dean nodded slowly in acceptance at the fit, tall gent standing before him with narrow hips and expressive brown eyes, full lips meant for kissing, and a decent-sized package tucked enticingly away behind leather laced flies.

"Definitely shaggable," he told himself, trying on a seductive smile before recoiling a bit at how that appeared. He changed his gaze to be intense and kept his posture more butch. In general, when he felt he was becoming somewhat queeny, he'd think, _"How would Seamus pose?"_ and then take it down a notch. Yes, he was quite a catch, all right.

_"I wonder what sort of bait will be out there?"_ he thought to himself as he pulled on a leather jacket. He cast a Nox on all of his lights and locked his doors before walking over to his fireplace, having decided to go by the Floo network to a hotel a few blocks down from a wizarding club called The Chimera. He'd not gone too many times and he'd always been with someone, usually Patric. Early on, when the War was newly over, however, he'd had several wild nights with Bernard Acacia, an older Ravenclaw who'd shown him the ropes.

It wasn't nearly as packed as the last time he'd been there; then again, it was a Tuesday night. He could feel a few blatant, lust-filled gazes on him as he entered and stood at the bar. He paused for only a moment before ordering an Irish Volcano, a three-layered, potent beverage with Bitter Banshee, Guinness and Absinthe. Even before he'd left his flat, he knew he'd be drinking, but he vowed not to get as sloppy as Ron had that recent fateful weekend.

The green and black cocktail went down smoothly, though it left him hiccoughing faint bursts of green flames for a few minutes afterwards. He ordered a second, and once he had it, turned to survey the room. It was after his fourth drink that he acquiesced and went to dance with a whipcord thin, 70s-attired tousled youth who was endearingly persistent and promised that Dean wouldn't regret it. They danced for a few songs, bumping and grinding and groping. Dean had felt the bloke's — Damon's — erection becoming more and more pronounced when they'd rejoin at the hip after short spaces of gyrating apart. After a few dances he begged off, insisting that Damon should be shared with some other men who'd been eyeing him. Damon reluctantly agreed, but only with the caveat that he had to give Dean a kiss first. Dean found himself clutched tightly, and a talented tongue making blistering, fervent paths in his mouth. In a back part of Dean's increasingly addled mind, he prided himself on not comparing the bone-melting snog to Ron, at least not much. Dazedly he prised himself loose, and it was only when he caught himself swaying a bit back at the bar, fumbling as he scavenged through his jacket pockets for one of his clove cigarettes, that he realised he'd been hit pretty hard by his imbibing.

He took his time as he smoked, watching the clusters of men, some of whom were doing all but shag though most of their clothes were still on. It turned him on to watch, seeing the hard angles of jaws and shoulders as the male bodies intertwined. He'd been half-hard the entire time he'd been dancing with the 70s bloke, but his bladder insisted that it be tended to before contemplating any erotic activity. After establishing that he could, indeed, stand up straight without assistance or wobbling, he headed back to the toilets. En route he navigated a narrow, dark corridor whose topography consisted of writhing, grunting pairs of men. The smacking, liquid sounds went straight to the throbbing in his groin and he hurried on into the equally dimly-lit loo. Cursing the laces at the front of his trousers, at last he managed to loosen them enough to open the flap. He aimed his freed cock at the urinal he'd picked, the one the furthest distance from the door. He'd nearly finished, relief flooding him as his piss streamed out, when the door opened. Dean turned to look, one hand planted on the stone wall, and gaped for several seconds until he chastised himself to at least attempt some suavity.

"I know you— you work at Nine Inch Males! But… you're a wizard?" he exclaimed, his inner censor having obviously been gagged and shoved into a closet, doubtless keeping company with that part of himself which was cool and collected.

A warm, sensuous smile settled on the young man's lips as he slowly walked over, his auburn hair gleaming sanguine as he passed a sconce with candles.

"Must be," he said smoothly, his gaze meandering over Dean's body before returning to look at him directly. "I know you, too. Well, noticed you. You're not easy to forget."

Dean felt his fleeing reserves buckle, though swooning outright seemed pathetic. Besides, he was in front of a urinal, his turgid cock still untucked and in his hand.

"Really?" He forced himself not to stare at the dancer's groin, managing to cast a silent, wandless _Scourgify_ on his prick and begin arranging himself so he could redo his trousers.

"Yeah. Surely you've heard the phrase tall, dark and handsome." His granite eyes were warm, his tone amused but not mocking. "And you've a sinful arse."

When his narrow fingers caressed Dean's hip, he blurted out, "I've fantasised about you. Oh! Fuck. Sorry. Shit, that was—"

"Flattering." The young man insinuated his hand under Dean's so he could grasp at Dean's cock. "I wonder if you'd tell me what I did?" He'd pressed Dean against the side of the stall, his skilled hand pulling up and down on Dean's hot skin.

"Merlin," Dean breathed, shoving away traitorous thoughts of Ron bursting in and seeing him like this, being willingly seduced by this gorgeous man. "What's your name?" he asked, wrapping his arms behind the evidently Welsh dancer's waist and shoving his own hips forward with a muted groan.

"Rhys." His voice was fresh somehow, light but seductive in a way that caused Dean's nipples to harden as he frotted into Rhys' hand. "Yours?"

"Dean."

"Dean." Rhys caressed the word, making the lone syllable sound edible. "So. I hope I was good in your fantasy. I've been told my cock feels amazing."

Dean couldn't suppress the needy whimper that escaped his throat. He wished he'd not had that fourth Irish Volcano, but it wasn't keeping him from feeling exactly how turned on he was. This was what he'd come out for, wasn't it? Hot, no holds barred, strings free sex.

"Can I fuck you?" Rhys' tone was hoarse, the words purred onto Dean's lips. "I'm better in real life than any wank you might've had."

"Fuck, yes," Dean moaned, tugging Rhys' hips into him with a jerky motion, latching onto the dancer's lips and plundering the scorching cavern of his mouth.

The world shrank down to an erotic alembic of possessive hands, feasting lips and jutting flesh. Dean found his palms pressed for purchase against the metal slab of a toilet stall. His tight trousers were peeled down to his knees while Rhys uttered a wandless lubrication spell before he was slowly but irrevocably breached. The taut pleasurepain radiated from his clenching channel, an acute burning dissipating into his lower back and down his thighs. Rhys kept pushing until Dean let out a pained cry.

"Almost there, doe-eyes, almost there," Rhys soothed, pausing for Dean's body to adapt to the intrusion. It felt as though a steel rod had been forced into him, up into his very guts. Something far inside himself gave way and he was able to relax imperceptibly.

"Gods, you're so good, so tight," Rhys exhaled into the tense muscles of Dean's upper back. He slid back a couple of inches, which felt like yawning miles inside Dean's stretched muscles, then shoved back in, this time changing the angle just enough to slide past Dean's bundle of nerves.

All Dean could manage were panted breaths and murmured exaltations of profanity. The long shaft was buried in him, ploughing again and again. Dean's nerves vibrated with the soft slap of skin against his arse and the pulsing waves of heat that sparked along to his untouched cock with each punishing thrust. Unlike in his fantasy, Rhys wasn't chatty, though he'd occasionally huff out "Feels brilliant" or "Merlin, fuck, so good." Dean was close to coming, his body stimulated to an unbearable threshold, when he pulled a hand off of the wall to tend to his aching prick. He felt strangely distant, almost like a marionette being expertly manoeuvred. His heart wasn't at all involved in this; it was musky sweat and spiralling fire in his prick and Rhys' very real, very engorged cock hammering into his abused arse.

Dean was faintly attuned to the rising pitch of Rhys' sexy whines and he picked up speed on his shaft. Rhys let out a scudding moan, holding tightly on to Dean's hips as his release shuddered deep in Dean's body. Dean clenched his jaw, his hand flying on his prick until rocked by his orgasm. The pungent spunk silently hit the toilet stall, making pearly tracks as it slid down the metal. Dazed, his legs and hand trembling, Dean leaned forward until he could rest his forehead against the side of the stall. Eventually his racing heart slowed while Rhys stroked his arse, the gentle path of his fingers a warning of sorts before he eased out. Dean bit down on his lip, his sore inner muscles feeling a disconcerting ghostly impression of Rhys' cock for a few moments.

When Dean trusted himself to move, he eased up, murmuring a quiet word of thanks as Rhys cast cleansing spells on them both. He turned around and they exchanged some surprisingly tender words of gratitude and sundry niceties as Dean made sure he was properly dressed. When he left the toilets and headed toward the bar, Rhys opted not to follow. Back at the bar Dean stood, quite certain that sitting would be an appallingly bad idea, and ordered a double firewhiskey. The alcohol scorched his throat, but couldn't force himself to feel anything other than a perplexing mixture of sated ennui. He paid the bartender, made sure his cigarettes were in his coat, and walked unsteadily out of the club.

* * * * *

The morning was unforgiving in its brutality. Dean's head swam and throbbed, his mouth was as dry as the desert, and he winced at the twinging soreness in his arse even doing something as simple as moving his legs around so he could sit up. As he hobbled into his bathroom, a few splinters of clarity came to him about the night before, and he gave himself virtual kudos for having been so spontaneous. It really was unbelievable that the guy he'd wanked about had ended up being a wizard and at that particular club on that particular night… he'd even seemed like a decent fellow, from what he could remember. The muscles in his backside had a much keener memory than his head, that was certain.

He found some healing salve in a cabinet and even the dregs of a small bottle of Madam Ciara's Hangover Draught to which he added a bit of water and drank. It wasn't a full dose, but even the small portion helped him to feel more human. A backward glance through his doorway to his clock showed that he didn't have all that long before he needed to catch the bus to Diagon Alley. He was quite proficient at Apparition, but he'd learned that artwork, like some other intricate magical artefacts, simply travelled better by more conventional means. From Diagon Alley he'd take the Floo network to the primary fireplace in Glasgow where yet another marketing staffperson for the Green Knights would pick him up in a modified Muggle car to take him to Ron's flat.

Ron. Friend? Fuckbuddy? What?

While he showered, putting the water as hot as he could bear it, he ran his various relationships through his head. The truth was, aside from his year and some with Patric, friendships were what he knew best. It probably made the most sense for him to deliver Ron's portrait and test the waters with the understanding, at least to himself, that they were just friends and that one evening had been an anomaly. Lathering himself between his legs for a second time, the tactile memories of being with Ron came flooding back and he shut his eyes, which didn't help. It wasn't as though he'd gone looking for anything with him though, not really. At some point surely someone would come into his life who wanted him for who he was, and then he could worry about the finer aspects of being a decent boyfriend, or partner. He probably wasn't ready for that now anyway.

After his shower he got dressed, putting on a pair of well-worn denims and a comfortable jumper. It took him a while to wrap Ron's portrait securely, so he was almost flying out the door to make it to his stop on the Pegasus line. With his new imposed resolutions, he found he was looking forward to the visit, and showing off the portrait itself. He'd decided not to cast the animating spell until he was at Ron's flat, which was a bit nerve-wracking, but the decision felt instinctively right. The Green Knights chap who picked him up in Glasgow was amiable and chatty, and soon he was knocking at Ron's door.

The door opened, and Dean stood for a moment, a bit rattled at Ron's appearance. He was dressed as though he was going out for a nice dinner which, Dean considered, Ron might well be doing once he presented the painting and then took his leave.

"Come in," Ron said, gesturing into his decent-sized living room with the large telly he and Dean had watched on Boxing Day.

"Thanks."

"Guess everything went okay, Philip was there…"

"Yep, couldn't have been smoother." Dean became increasingly uncomfortable as he noticed details while he walked through: Ron's flat was tidy, a quite delicious smell emanated from his kitchen, and Ron kept glancing around himself, as though someone might pop out from behind one of his potted Emmalexis plants or something else equally unexpected.

"Look, I was going to cast the _Animus_ after you'd had a little time to look at it flat-out, but it seems as though you're expecting company. I don't want to interfere—" Dean began before Ron stopped him.

"You're the only one who's supposed to be here. I know I'm a git, and I shouldn't have assumed that you wouldn't have plans, but would you stay for dinner?" Ron looked at him with abashed hopefulness, as though he really wasn't sure whether or not Dean would turn him down.

Dean's heart was in tumult. His new resolve of being just friends had caught a snag with Ron's offer, but he tried to rationalise that there didn't need to be anything profound in the invitation.

"Sure. Um, where do you want this to go?" Dean asked, adjusting the satchel over his shoulder to hoist up the painting.

"Not sure where I'll hang it in the long run, but let's start with it here. May I look at it now?"

Ron's irrepressible enthusiasm was catching, reminding Dean that while Ron was paying for the portrait, in many ways it was a gift. A sudden flashback to Ron tearing into the presents that littered his bed on his birthdays at Hogwarts came to mind, and he smiled. "Of course. I don't think you'll be disappointed."

Ron gave him a look as though he'd managed to speak Parseltongue. "Disappointed? You're a brilliant artist, and it'll only look more amazing now that the background is there."

With nearly childlike zeal, Ron set to unwrapping the portrait. When it was uncovered he stood up, moving back to stand as close as he could to Dean without actually stepping on his shoes. Dean waited silently, supposing that Ron's reaction was a positive one. The arm around his shoulder appeared to affirm that assumption, but Dean still found that he was on tenterhooks until Ron finally spoke.

"It's fucking brilliant. You're so bloody talented!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, his characteristic lopsided grin glued to his lips. "I don't know how you made me look that attractive, because I know bloody well I'm not really a looker like that!"

Dean nearly contradicted out loud but was spared that potential embarrassment when Ron turned and threw his arms around him, squeezing him and babbling about talent and finally having his own portrait and how fucking brilliant it was that Dean had painted it. Ron's gush of praise finally petered out and he stood back a bit, keeping his hands on Dean's shoulder blades. He seemed to be contemplating something painful or awkward. At Ron's change in demeanour, Dean began reeling back the miscreant thoughts that had already charged ahead into wishful thinking territory.

"Can we talk?" Ron asked.

Dean paused only for a second, enough to chant his _just friends_ mantra a few times. "Of course."

"I'm going to get a Guinness. Can I get you anything?" Ron's fingertips rubbed a little against Dean's upper back.

"Guinness is fine." At Ron's confused look, Dean went on. "I don't plan to make a habit of it, but I went out last night and drank some and wouldn't mind having one with you." He opted not to tell him about his memorable tryst with Rhys in the toilets, at least not yet.

Ron shrugged his shoulders. "I really do respect your decision not to drink. I'll get one, but only if you want."

"I want."

Dean sat down on the couch, his pulse beating faster than normal and his palms getting sweaty. He was frustrated with himself, getting so worked up just being around Ron again. They'd been getting on really well before that night, and in many ways he wanted to go back to how things had been before. He'd liked having someone else besides Seamus to chat with comfortably, and this was decidedly awkward.

Ron took a seat next to him, handed him a bottle and clinked the necks together before taking a long swig. He appeared to be steeling himself for something unpleasant, and Dean very nearly started into his own somewhat-practised let's-be-friends speech himself when Ron opened his mouth.

"I've been rather a wanker, and I apologise. You're a good guy, and a great friend, and somebody I'd really like to hang out with a lot."

Dean nodded, taking a deep swallow of his own beer as he anticipated the monstrous 'but' that hung in the air.

"Last Sunday morning I woke up and you were still sound asleep. I lay there for a bit, fighting off the headache I had, but it felt good, y'know, you sprawled out next to me, snoring a bit."

"I don't snore!" Dean blurted out.

"It wasn't loud snoring, just a little noise," Ron said hastily. "The point is, it was pretty great. I've not spent the night with anyone in a few years. Since Harry."

"Of course." He tried unsuccessfully not to think of the two of them in bed together, but the image didn't leave a sour taste in his mouth as he'd thought it might.

"Look. I need to get this out, I've been meaning to owl, or Firecall, but the longer I waited, the more like an absolute shit I felt," Ron said, drawing one long leg up onto his knee. "Anyway, I couldn't go back to sleep, so I got up and made a cup of tea and wandered about your place for a bit. I spent some time looking around your studio, and found a bunch of sketches. Of me."

Dean flashed hot and cold, embarrassment churning into anger at his privacy having been violated while he was sleeping in his bed. "You weren't meant to see those!" he seethed before downing his beer. "I mean, I guess you should've expected I'd do other sketches, but…"

"The naked ones threw me off a bit, though they were really flattering," Ron said with a small laugh, though his expression remained thoughtful. "It was the others that shocked me. My hands, my face, me sitting on that stool… they were all amazing. I was just surprised. There was something so, well, tender about them. I'm atrocious at talking about shit like this, sorry," he apologised. "It was obvious that you were thinking about me even when I wasn't there, and not just in a friendly way. It took me seeing those to realise that I obviously thought about you like that too. You'd've thought that the fact that I'd spent the night and my fuzzy memories about some really great sex would've clued me in, but I can be pretty fucking thick sometimes."

Dean simply stared, forcing himself to stay quiet until Ron had had his say. The betrayal he'd felt transformed into something like pity while his _just friends_ soapbox clattered into a small heap.

"So I guess what I'm trying to say in the most ridiculous, roundabout way possible, is that I hope I haven't fucked up too much. I don't want to lose you as a friend, but I think I could really get used to being with you as much more than that. Scares the piss out of me, don't get me wrong. If Harry were here, he'd tell you how crap a boyfriend I can be."

"If Harry were here, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation."

Ron nodded slowly, his expression rueful. "But we are, which means that if you don't think I'm a total twat, maybe I can do better this time."

Dean's feelings were thrown into pandemonium which he covered up by finishing his beer. Images zagged pell-mell through his inner vision: him congratulating Ron after a well-played match; lounging together on this couch of Ron's, watching telly; leisurely afternoons walking hand in hand through one of the London parks Dean frequented. He almost groaned aloud at the rosy romanticism of his imagination, and was taken aback by the metamorphosis on Ron's face from hopefulness to resignation.

"No— I mean, I don't think you're that much of a berk," Dean corrected himself, seeing the chagrin settle on Ron's features as he looked down, beginning to pick at the label on his beer. "It would've been nice if you'd owled, but, oh fuck it, that's done with. Yeah, I don't want to lose your friendship either, but I've got to admit, I'd really like much more than that. I'm not the best boyfriend either, I don't think; the truth is, I've only had the one, as Seamus doesn't count, but I'd like to try. With you, I'd really like to give things a go." Ron raised his head, and Dean found himself nodding, affirming that Ron's expressive eyes and slight laugh lines at the corner of his lips and copper-stubbled jaw was a view that he'd like to get to know very, very well.

Dean quirked his lips to the side, leaning down slightly to place his beer on the nearby table. "There are a few things you should know, in case you want to back out now. I loathe spring, I get insecure about my art, I've been told I sleepwalk on occasion, I tend to stay up really late at night, and no matter what, I play squash with Seamus on Tuesdays. He'll have my bollocks if that changes."

Ron settled back against the couch, twisting his head so that it nearly rested on the back, and placed his hand on Dean's leg above the knee. His thumb made a small path back and forth as a smile bloomed on his lips.

"My turn," Ron said. "I've got a bit of a temper, but you already knew that."

Dean huffed a dampened laugh.

"I hate keeping up with money, I really like cooking but can't stand to go to the shops for ingredients, I hate feeling ignored and I'll let you know it, I'm jealous, I can't be bothered to do laundry until I'm down to my last pair of boxers and sometimes not even then, and I'd really like to kiss you right now." Ron's pink tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip was more than enough invitation for Dean. He took Ron's Guinness and placed it on the table before leaning over and hungrily mashing his lips against Ron's. Ron opened his mouth with a moan, sliding backward and pulling Dean on top of him so that they lay together in a long heap of elbows and hips and knees. Their tongues slid and duelled; Dean could already feel a damp patch in his groin as his denims grew increasingly tight and his heart danced parabolas and he wanted to devour the needy whimpers coming from Ron's throat.  
  
Dean pulled his lips away while Ron groaned his disappointment, but Dean wanted to say one more thing before words failed him.

"You're beautiful, Ron."

Ron looked at him, his pupils dilated and his slightly swollen lips curving upwards. "You're daft. But if you think so, I s'pose that's all that matters. Now c'mere."

Dean did, passionately.

* * * * *  
  
Waking with a start, Dean churned through several disconcerting moments of confusion as he took in an unfamiliar room. With the quietness of falling leaves, the details settled back on him, Ron's gentle snoring to his left reminding him that he was exactly where he wanted to be. He lay under the covers for a bit until he realised he wouldn't fall right back to sleep, so he eased himself out of the bed and padded silently into the living room to find his satchel. He rummaged through it to get a sketch pad, pencil and his wand, and returned to Ron's bedroom. Easing down into a chair, he whispered _Lumos_ so he had just enough light to see Ron's face, untroubled in sleep, and began to draw.

* * * * *  
A/N  
Síofra- Irish: sprite or precocious child

Anson Astrolabe's lyrics are the author's, who apologises for her attempt at rhyming anything.  



End file.
